Violence.
Hitting things had always been therapeutic for me; that was why I locked myself in the private gym for hours, burning some steam.
I stood in front of the punching bag hanging from a steel chain in the middle of the room. The air was thick with the smell of leather and sweat, blending with the soft jazz playing in the background.
My white singlet clung to my body, damp with perspiration, the fabric hugging me like a second skin. With a heaving chest, I carefully wrapped a white cloth around my palm, each tug precise and deliberate. I flexed my fingers to test the tension, my breathing steady and controlled.
Overwhelmed by my present situation, I swung the first punch, and it landed with a sickening thud. The bag jerked from the force, the impact doing little to ease my stress. I struck again, harder this time.
Again. And again. And again. Each punch came sharper, faster, and harder than the last as my shoulders coiled with lethal precision. The more I struck the bag, the lighter I felt—the tension was easing off me bit by bit.
I kept going, my breath coming in ragged gasps, sweat beading down my collarbone and flowing onto my chest. My heartbeat has spiked, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The white cloth I wrapped around my knuckles was supposed to protect my knuckles, but my blows were too forceful.
My thoughts became quieter with each strike, the thought of anything bad happening to my child fueling my rage. I found solace in the horrible things I’d do to whoever was unfortunate enough to come after my loved ones. They’d wish they were this punching bag because they’d suffer a fate worse than death.
At this point, the bag was already swinging wildly, the chain creaking at the impact of my skull-crushing blows. The room was filled with the sounds of my thick grunts as I picturedthe bag as an enemy. My knuckles hurt, but I didn’t stop. I embraced the pain, striking even harder. My heavy punches left traces of blood on the bag with every blow.
I swung more aggressive punches, pissed at myself this time because, for the first time in a really long time, I had no control over a situation. This girl had awakened something in me, ignited a fire that wouldn’t quench, and stirred up the emotions I once buried.
I knew the right thing to do was find who she truly was, but I was afraid of the truth I’d find. Fear was a feeling I was unfamiliar with, yet with her, it seemed to creep into my heart so easily. And hated it—I hated how confused I was—how vulnerable I felt around her.
It felt like I was turning into someone I hardly recognized, someone driven by the emotions he had once suppressed. Why? Because of a woman.
I threw my hardest punch yet, and the bag swung so wildly that I thought the chain was about to snap. Struggling to catch my ragged breaths, I caught the swinging bag with one hand, stilling its movement.
My jaw tightened, eyes narrowing at the blood stains on the bag. My bruised knuckles ached, but it was worth it in the end, considering the calm I felt within. It wasn’t peace, but it wasn’t rage either.
I stared at the bag, my shoulders rising and falling with steady breaths as I reveled in this small sense of calm. Then it hit me: If this were having such an effect on me, it would be worse onDikaya.
Perhaps avoiding her these past few days was selfish and thoughtless. She shouldn’t be alone right now.
I let out a soft sigh and rubbed my eyes, thinking about my next move, but my mind was blank at that moment. Theonly thing on my mind was finding myDikayaand keeping her company, even though I had no idea what to say to her.
It was clear by now that we needed each other because we were both worried about our child’s future. Fighting this battle separately would only make it more painful, and although I could handle the pain, I didn’t want her to go through all of that.
Quietly, I stepped away from the bag and left the gym to take a shower.
Later that night, I found her at her favorite spot in the house—the balcony on the east wing. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. One leg was stretched out, and the other was pulled up toward her chest. Her eyes were fixed on the stars, and her expression was soft, with a faint grin tugging at her lips.
Her soft curls were pulled into a messy ponytail, her skin glowing under the moonlight. She looked so beautiful and innocent that just by looking at her, my heart melted like ice cream.
I leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over my chest as I silently watched her, taking in the details of her incredible body. She was wearing a worn, checkered shirt with baggy jeans, like a character from one of those adventure movies.
“Did you know that a star is twice the size of the Earth?” she asked without turning to face me. “Yet, millions of light-years away, they look so small—like tiny dots in the celestial canvas.” A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “Isn’t that fascinating?”
I figured it was rhetorical, so I didn’t bother responding.
“Sometimes the precision of the universe makes me wonder if there’s….” She paused and continued, “If there’s really a designer behind all of this, you know.”
“You mean God?” I asked her.
She turned to face me and then nodded. “But if heisout there, then he must really hate me.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper, tinged with traces of pain.
Silence.
She continued, “He must hate all the girls that were kidnapped and shipped off to God-knows-where. I mean, look at me; my life sucks—I was bought like a piece of property by a man who cares little for me. And now I’m stuck in his violent world with his child in my womb.”
Her words hurt more than bee stings, and when she looked at me, all I saw in those stormy eyes was pain.
